Bittersweet Sixteen

by Carrie Karasyov

  We checked out the main deck and then decided to troll the scene first before choosing a place to plop.

  “Oh my God,” said Sophie. “Our centerpieces are gonna kick Lilly’s centerpieces’ ass!”

  “Totally,” said Whitney, scanning the room for Jake. “We’ve cruised all three decks; I mean, dónde está the guy?” Whitney pushed an errant hair back behind her ear. “These gusts are killing my ’do. Laura, can you go get the guys? Bring them back here, and we’ll get bevs.”

  “Fine.” I sighed. I was not in the mood to be fetcher girl, but I was more than ready to get away from Whitney. Dispatched by her majesty to alert the boys of Whitney’s presence, i.e., sausage run, I took my time to ponder my situation. I don’t know why it bummed me out so much that Whitney planned on hooking up with Jake. I guess because I saw how quickly she caught and dropped boys. She’d wash her hands of him before next week’s manicure. Plus the discovery that she’d sold me out made me even less tolerant of her calculating ways.

  “Hey, Finnegan.”

  I turned around. Jolt to the aorta. Jake looked positively James Bondian. So dashing I thought I might fall overboard. “Hi—”

  “Is that one of your designs?” he said, nodding at my outfit, a crimson organza strapless dress I had sketched while watching an Audrey Hepburn movie.

  “Yeah.” I blushed, then remembered my critical mission. “So, um, we’re all hanging out on the other end of the boat, on, like, the stern. Or the bow? Down there,” I said, pointing with my whole arm, Vanna White style.

  “Cool.”

  “Do you guys want to come down there? Where’s your posse?”

  “Probably in the bathroom doing shots out of Bobby’s flask. Josh is there with them.”

  I was so annoyed Whit and Sophie had planted this dumb Josh seed—argh! “Oh, well, whatever. Why aren’t you with them?”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I am a little seasick.”

  “I’m so sorry! Can I get you anything? Ginger ale?”

  “No, no, it’s okay. I always feel like this on boats. Kind of lame when we’re not even cruising.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, feeling his pain. “I fully tossed my tacos the day after our little Tilt-a-Whirl odyssey.”

  “No way!”

  “Yeah, just a tad too much spinning and spaghetti.”

  “There you are!” Whitney suddenly appeared and kissed Jake hello. Sophie followed closely behind. Ava and Kaitlin were nowhere in sight. “Laura, we thought you were man overboard.”

  Just then the guys came back from the bathroom, minus Max.

  “Dude, I am hammered,” said Bobby, leaning on Jake in an exaggerated drunken manner.

  “Yeah, we, like, had so many shots,” said Josh, trying to impress the crowd. “Max is fully praying to the porcelain altar.” Nice.

  “This boat is now fully rockin’!” Bobby laughed. He was truly so immature. Such a meathead, too. Why is the jock cliché never a cliché?

  “Hey, Laura, ’sup?” asked Josh, turning toward me with a slightly tipsy look. “Wanna go dance? They flew in these DJs from Berlin, so fierce.”

  “Maybe in a little while,” I said.

  “Killer necklace,” Josh continued, touching my Cartier chain.

  “Yeah, it’s sweet,” said Jake.

  “Um, yeah, I…actually borrowed it from Whitney.”

  “Yes, it’s Cartier,” said Whitney, jumping in. Usually she never made a big deal about lending me stuff, but I guess since Jake admired it, she wanted him to be sure he knew it was hers.

  “So,” said Jake, turning to Sophie and Whitney. “You two taking notes for your big party?”

  “As if we would have such cheesy bar mitzvah–esque décor,” sniffed Sophie. “I mean, name in bulbs? No grazie.”

  “Dorkus Maximus,” pronounced Whitney, surveying the scene. “And this whole nautical theme should be on the ocean floor with the anchor. Please, do they think they’re old-line Newport?”

  “Um, waiter? Can we have a vat of Meow Mix sent over here?” Jake mocked.

  “Feline fighting!” cried Josh. “That’s better than WWE.”

  Bobby and Josh started making catcalls.

  “Oh, Jake, we’re just being bitchy!” said Whitney, suddenly laughing off her oh-so-serious comments as jokes. “So, are you going out to Southampton for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah,” said Jake. “I’ll be out there.”

  “Cool. Let’s go to the movies one night,” said Whitney, tilting her head to the side flirtatiously.

  “I haven’t been to a movie theater in, like, ten years,” said Sophie, leaning back seductively, showing her killer bod in her too-tight-for-my-taste dress. “I mean, premieres don’t count. Jake, you should fully come watch flicks in my screening room!”

  Whitney clearly looked taken aback by this invitation and the boob shot that accompanied it. I sensed Whit’s tension level ratchet up a notch with Sophie’s bold move. Good—it wouldn’t kill her not to automatically get what she wants for once.

  “That sounds awesome!” said Bobby, clearly not getting that the invitation wasn’t for him.

  “Or we can just be mellow and hang out at my house,” offered Whitney. “I want to chill this year. We can raid my parents’ Scotch vault like last time,” she said coyly.

  “Oh, we can always drink at my house; my parents are cool like that. We’re from L.A. It’s a lot more relaxed there,” said Sophie.

  Whitney’s eyes became daggers. I could see the rage mounting in her face. Great, all we needed was a real catfight. Much as I hated to get involved, it was time to break it up.

  “You guys,” I said, trying to break the budding tension in the night air. “I’m like starvatious! I think I just heard my stomach literally growl. Serengeti style. Let’s peruse the buffet.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” said Jake. “I’m going to go find Max and make sure he’s not still booting.”

  “Laura, want to do some shots?” asked Josh, offering me his flask.

  “No, thanks. I’ll catch you later.”

  Josh and Bobby went off after Jake, and Whitney, Sophie, and I stood there in silence. Except for the blaring Moby.

  “Sophie, what the hell was that?” Whitney asked with a piercing tone.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Uh-oh. Meow.

  “You were totally throwing yourself at Jake!” replied Whitney, seething.

  “So?”

  Wow, pretty bold of Sophie.

  “So? It was embarrassing.”

  “Why was it embarrassing? ’Cause I took his attention away from you?”

  “You guys—” I tried to intervene, but to no avail.

  “Jake is mine, Sophie!”

  “I think he would be pretty surprised to hear that he is yours,” snapped Sophie.

  I took a step backward so I didn’t get smacked by the ricochets of their meltdown. This was getting interesting, and they clearly weren’t listening to me, so I gave up trying to defuse the situation.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Whitney.

  “You do the math, Whitney,” Sophie said. “He’s not interested.”

  “Are you insane? You don’t even know him, you bitch!”

  “You think you are so great. Clearly Jake doesn’t agree.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Whitney’s face was the shade of the chèvre-stuffed beets going by on a Segway.

  “You. Tacky. Pathetic. Los Angeles new-money namedropper! While you were getting melanomas in Malibu, Jake Watkins and I were sneaking into Marquee! Your manipulations may work on the coast, but you are nothing here.”

  “Interesting,” replied Sophie coolly. “I always knew you were a Waspy repressed virgin, but I didn’t realize you were so competitive with me. You must have a complex. That’s the problem with the old money you’re so proud of. You’re scared of the people who actually know how to make it.”

  “You trashy little upstart!” Whitney scr
eamed at Sophie.

  “You asexual joke!”

  “Whoa, whoa, people—” I said desperately. This was beyond nasty. I had to do something. “Let’s just calm—”

  “To think I was going to share my Sweet Sixteen with such an unrefined, fake-tanned, low-class tart!” Whitney sniffed.

  “You think you’re such a princess. You act like you’re forty!” Sophie laughed.

  “You are out!” pronounced Whitney. “I am weeding the friendship garden!”

  “I hope Mummykins and Daddykins arranged a marriage for you with some closeted, social register, trust-fund loser, because you’ll never snag a guy yourself.”

  “Conversation terminated,” said Whitney. If she’d had a scythe in her handbag, Sophie’s head would have been lopped clean off. “Fasten your seat belt for a bumpy ride to hell.”

  “Ooooh, I’m so scared!” Sophie said, dripping venomous sarcasm. “Anyway, my party is going to kick your party’s zombie ass!”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Until tonight, I had believed the Titanic was the most horrific aquatic disaster. Boy, was I wrong. Shaken to the core, I flung open my front door and threw my clutch onto the couch dramatically. My parents, who had been totally engrossed in Charlie Rose, looked up with concern.

  “What happened?” my dad asked, muting the TV.

  I took a deep breath and fully downloaded the epic, bloody battle.

  “I’m still reeling,” I said breathlessly when I’d finished. “I’ve never seen two people be so nasty to each other. It was practically a bullfight, but they were both seeing red. I’m freaking out.”

  “Are you okay?” asked my mom. She put down her knitting and wrapped her arms around me. “It’s upsetting to see unbridled rage like that.”

  “It was the most major fight ever. And now the joint Sweet Sixteen party is officially off—I mean, off.” I pondered the enormity of what had gone down. “Can you believe this is happening? One day they’re off to Europe, and the next they are at each other’s throats over Jake!”

  “Is that the young man who always calls you?” asked my dad. Leave it to him to take forever to understand the major importance of something.

  “Yes, Daddy, but that’s beside the point. They both like Jake, and now they are sworn enemies because of him,” I said, picking up the stacks of periodicals that took over every surface of our overstuffed armchair, dropping them to the floor, and flopping myself down.

  “That’s too bad,” said my mom.

  “I’m not surprised,” said my dad, scratching the stubble on his chin. He always did that when he was thinking long and hard about something. (Which means he did it every second.) “These girls are very different. They made a superficial bond, which is always tenuous.”

  “I just can’t believe it. They were inseparable one second, and now…”

  “If they’re really friends, I’m sure this will all dissipate. In fact, I just read a UCLA study describing that whereas young men have a fight and flight propensity, young women always choose tend and mend. They generally make up because they are plagued when they are in a fight,” said my dad.

  “Oh, and you should read You Just Don’t Understand: Men and Women in Conversation, sweetie. It’s a brilliant analysis of—” began my mother before I interrupted her.

  “You guys, I’m sure that’s all great. But the thing is, this war was unlike anything you ever imagined. And lucky old me is caught right in the middle. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just be a good friend to both of them,” said my mom.

  “And stay above the fray,” advised my dad. “It will all work itself out eventually.”

  I hoped so. That night when I was lying in bed I tried to imagine what it would be like if Sophie and Whitney didn’t make up. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought for a second. I mean, they had started to get really exclusive and mean and totally dissed me. But on the other hand, they were both so strong-willed that it had the potential of getting really nasty. A chill factor on their instant-best-friendness might not be the worst thing in the world, but I shuddered to think what life would be like if they were sworn enemies. I had to take my dad’s advice and just stay above the fray.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After a heart-pounding weekend of managing to avoid repeated phone calls from both camps by claiming illness (Whitney sent a basket from E.A.T. and Sophie had Aaron Carter leave me a voice mail wishing me to “get well soon”), I knew I had to face the music. My parents thought it was bizarre that I was playing Greta Garbo, but I just wanted to be mentally prepared, and I didn’t want to say anything to either Whitney or Sophie over the phone that I would regret later. (It was convenient that they both turned to me when I’d previously been the spurned one.) It was better to deal with both in person and try and get this whole crazy chaos sorted out. But on Monday morning I had nowhere to hide, so I knew I had to face the mega-drama.

  It was Community Service morning, and on top of having my two friends be sworn enemies, I had to haul ass to Harlem to the Union Settlement Soup Kitchen to feed the indigent. All these years I had actually enjoyed it and felt rewarded by the experience, but this time I was so wound up I could barely ladle. Luckily, Whitney didn’t have Community Service this semester, so I would be solo with her archnemesis.

  Sophie and I only had a second to chat at first, during which time she threw her arms around me and profusely proclaimed how thrilled she was that I was feeling better. Before I could respond, we were assigned to serve the two soups, and faster than the speed of light, the line of homeless peeps rounded the block, ready for their grub. We sprung into action.

  “Carrot ginger bisque with fresh chives or winter squash with a dollop of truffle cream?” Sophie politely asked a man who was wearing a Hefty bag.

  He grunted, surveying the two choices. “The orange one.”

  She handed it to him as I kept pouring out the bowls. Once we’d developed a rhythm and the line was moving, Sophie turned to me.

  “Laura, we have to talk.”

  “Okay,” I said, hoping this was a step toward peace.

  “I really like you. I think you’re awesome,” she said. “And I know you have a history with Whitney, which I totally respect. But you and I became friends later in life, as adults; we weren’t just thrust together in kindergarten. To me, that’s more real.”

  “Look, Sophie,” I said. “I think you guys are going through some momentary insanity with the other night, and I don’t want to pick sides, and—”

  “Wait, don’t say anything,” she said, interrupting me. “The thing is, I didn’t want to tell you before, but when we were a triumvirate, Whitney walked all over you. You’re, like, her lackey, and you don’t need that crap. Plus, that whole Amsterdam trip? I told you, Whitney fully knocked my idea to have you come with us, same with when we got manicures and went shopping last week. She was trying to freeze you out. I mean, what kind of best friend is that?”

  I felt ill. She’d struck a nerve. I thought I was going to barf. But I now had sandwiches to serve.

  “Reggiano and pomodoro panini or prosciutto with minced fig?” I asked a guy with a beard longer than Santa’s.

  “Meat?”

  I handed him the prosciutto and minced fig.

  “Look, Sophie, I really can’t deal with this right now. I know things have been crazy lately, but I think we can all gel again.”

  “Please,” said Sophie, dashing that dream. “You really think a pocket full of doves are gonna come flying out and we’ll all ride the peace train? Party’s over. That loser is history, and I know that you know she’s a bad friend. As for you and me, we have a totally more real connection, and I hope you can see the light about her.”

  I served panini in silence.

  “Come on, Laura, I think you rule—we’re still friends, right?”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “Good,” said Sophie. “’Cause I really want you t
o come to my family’s compound in Aspen over spring break; it’ll be a blast.”

  After that Kaitlin came up and we couldn’t talk any more. Throughout the day I could tell that Kaitlin and Sophie seemed to be tighter than ever, and Kaitlin seemed thrilled to have Sophie to herself sans Whit. Whitney was always a little judgmental about K’s slutdom, whereas Sophie obviously didn’t share Whitney’s prudishness. I sighed. We were totally on our way to becoming a class full of Crips and Bloods.

  Back at school I aced the history test I’d been jamming for all weekend to distract myself from the wreckage, and then I had to run down to art class, where I knew I’d see Whitney. We had a male “model” (who was hideous) posing buck naked for us to draw at our easels. As he reclined on a chaise with his fat rolls all over the place, I couldn’t help but think that normally we’d be dying laughing at the skinned roadkill that was his chest hair, but the mood was too dire.

  “I’m so glad it’s just back to us.” Whitney sighed, smiling at me. “Sophie totally insinuated herself into our clique. I’m thrilled we did a housecleaning.”

  I kept drawing the gargantuan thighs, and I could feel Whitney’s eyes burning into me with her impatience for a comment. It could have been easy if I’d just agreed and returned to our twosome, but Sophie had been nothing but nice while Whitney had been sort of rude and exclusionary. If I teamed up with Whit, I would just be betraying myself—she was so quick to drop my ass and bond with Sophie, and now she wanted my solidarity.

  “Whitney,” I started nervously. “Until you guys patch, I think I’m just gonna be my own private Idaho—”

  Wrong response.

  “Laura! You just don’t get it!” she snapped. “Wishy-washiness is so lame. Sophie is out and you’re in! This is good for you. I mean, you never notice these things, but she really ignored you and tried to align herself with me and boot you out of the way.”